


Finding Spike

by sandy_s



Category: Angel: the Series, Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-23
Updated: 2015-11-23
Packaged: 2018-05-02 23:41:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,895
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5268290
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sandy_s/pseuds/sandy_s
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Title: Finding Spike<br/>Author: Sandy S.<br/>Rating: PG-13<br/>Disclaimer: I own nothing. All belongs to Joss.<br/>Summary: Set in season five of AtS. What if Buffy met up with Spike after “The Girl in Question”?<br/>Dedication: For __tiana__...happy birthday to one of my dearest online friends! I hope all your birthday wishes come true! :o)<br/>Thanks to sharelle, myfeetshowit, beanbeans, spikeskat and fishsanwitt for your help on the first three parts...<br/>Author's note: I finished this WIP for the 10th anniversary of Seasonal Spuffy! :o)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Part One

_When was the last time I saw Spike?_

_Not too long after he came to Rome with Angel. The Immortal decided to play a twisted game with my ex-boyfriends when he found out who they were. He was kind of the jealous type, which was so not of the good. And I thought vampires were jealous._

_I was really angry when I found out that Spike and Angel had been in the apartment I shared with Dawn and that the Immortal had even tricked Andrew into being a part of the game. Well, not so much tricked as burned down his apartment building to bully him into deceiving the two vampires in my life._

_But I’m getting off the subject. You want to know how I reconnected with Spike._

_Okay, so I don’t know all of it, like how he came back from dying in the Hellmouth, and I really don’t know what he was like with Angel. I wasn’t there, but I know what Spike told me in the time we shared. Why does it always seem like the time we had together was so short? There’s no answer to that, is there?_

* * *

Spike tossed his mostly empty briefcase from one hand to the other as he marched up to the elevator. Between parking garages and tinted car windows, he could make it from his apartment to the Wolfram and Hart with little to no risk of frying up extra crispy.

Shifting impatiently, he watched as the light showed the elevator slowly descending, and with a ding, the doors parted. Sighing, he entered and pushed the giant lobby button. Scowling, he noticed that someone, no doubt attempting to be funny, had pushed all the buttons.

Then, something on the floor caught his attention. Something green and slimy oozed out around his shoes.

“Oh, for the love of. . .” Spike cursed, lifting a hard-to-move foot. Looked like he’d be complaining to Angel about the janitorial staff. . . again. How many times had he run across demon goop of unknown origin in the elevator? Almost made him wish he were all ghostly and go-throughable again.

The elevator dinged again, the doors parted, and Illyria stepped aboard from the second-level parking garage. “Good morning, vampire.” She regarded him with unblinking, electric blue eyes. Spike still had a hard time seeing Fred’s willowy body worn by the god king. “You are standing in something. . . adhesive and dense.”

She squatted to the floor of the elevator so quickly that Spike didn’t see the motion, just felt a slight shift in the air around him. Next thing he knew, she was sticking a goop-covered finger into her mouth. She closed her eyes, and Spike raised his eyebrows as she remained motionless through the next ding of the elevator and the next.

Finally, they reached the lobby, and Illyria remained a motionless sculpture. Grumbling to himself, Spike side-stepped around her, pulling his feet from the muck.

As he slipped past, Illyria’s hand clapped onto his ankle. Spike tried to unlock himself from her grip, but she only tightened her hold. Turning her head slowly, she opened one cobalt eye, “Someone must clean this up.”

“And that won’t be me,” Spike informed her, clapping his palm on the side of his briefcase. “I have stuff to do. Let go, Blue.”

She loosened her fingers, but only to ask, “You have more to do with me? More science projects?”

“Not today. Go find Watcher boy. He can mind you.”

He hoped the double meaning of “mind” would throw her off long enough for him to get away. He was right; she spent a moment processing what he’d said. He extracted his foot and squished onto the carpet, spreading the demon goo. Served the cleaning staff right.

“Wesley is angry with me. I feel. . . uncomfortable because he is angry.”

“Not my problem.” Spike angled toward Angel’s office, sweeping past the passersby who’d stopped to stare at Illyria. He wanted to spend the morning pestering Angel, something that had become part of his daily routine.

Spike almost launched himself through Angel’s door, complete with beaming smile and cocky attitude, when he noticed that the door was slightly cracked, and the ex-Watcher’s voice filtered out.

“So, just to make it clear. You don’t want to do anything.”

Angel didn’t immediately respond. When he did, he sounded completely annoyed, “Nothing. I don’t have time right now to go chasing after Buffy. Spike and I spent enough time chasing after Buffy in Rome. We have bigger fish to fry here, money to make, clients to tend to.”

“And yet, you still have people at Wolfram and Hart keeping an eye on her.”

“I do, yes. But only because I haven’t had time to reallocate our resources.”

Spike narrowed his eyes. This was awfully fishy. Why wouldn’t Angel want to help Buffy if she needed some sort of help. . . no matter what kind of “work” needed to be done at Wolfram and Hart? And despite what Angel had said about giving up on Buffy, Spike knew for a fact that Angel wouldn’t stop watching out for her. Angel always did like to have a semblance of control over things even if he didn’t *actually* have control.

Spike decided further listening was warranted.

Wesley persisted, “Well, here’s her address. She’ll be in L.A. visiting her father for a few days and doing some work with the Slayers here in town. In case you change your mind.”

“Don’t you need to get back to work?” Angel sounded annoyed.

“At least take the address.”

“Fine.” Spike heard Angel snatch what was likely a bit of paper. “Go back to work. Don’t you have Illyria to look after?”

“Spike!” a voice hissed from behind Spike.

He jumped and guiltily glanced over his shoulder, rolling his eyes when he realized who’d caught him. Yet another reason he didn’t know why he came here everyday. “Harm!” he whispered, hoping she wouldn’t increase her volume.

“What do you think you’re doing?” she asked sweetly, shoving her face into his and smiling at his obvious discomfort.

Angel’s office door swung wide, and Spike grinned. “Looking for old Wes here.” Spike whapped the ex-Watcher in the chest. Wesley glared at him.

Harmony made a face to let Spike know she didn’t believe him. “Uh huh.”

“What do you want?” Wesley asked, adjusting his glasses.

“Blue’s looking for you,” Spike lied. Someone had to look after the blue god. “Caught her wondering around the second level parking lot. Better watch her. She might decide to go for a walk down the street and end up on the six o’clock news.”

Spike caught the pain that flashed in Wesley’s eyes as he pushed between the two vampires. Spike reached out to snag his arm, adding, “Heard what happened. She was just trying to help you. . . even if she didn’t know how to do it very well.”

Wesley paused and nodded, giving Spike a half-grimace, half-smile. He moved on with the gait of a man older than his years, casting a cloak of misery over the pair behind him.

Harmony was distracted, so Spike ducked into the office.

“Hey!” she called as he shut the door in her face.

“What do you want, Spike?” Angel asked gruffly without looking up from the papers he was reading at his desk.

Spike marched straight up to the desk and plunked his briefcase on the polished top. Scanning the papers on the desk, he announced, “I’m here for the meeting.”

“What meeting, Spike?”

Hoping to play on Angel’s recent distractibility, Spike pretended not to notice Angel’s patronizing habit of punctuating each statement or question with his name. “You know. The one we scheduled last week before we headed out to Rome.”

Angel didn’t even look up. “I don’t recall scheduling a meeting with you, Spike.”

Spike spied a small post-it note that seemed out of place near Angel’s right arm. He craned his neck in an attempt to read what it said. Sodding cramped Watcher handwriting. “Right, well, maybe you just forgot.” He cocked his head to one side. “Doesn’t Harmony keep your schedule nowadays?”

Angel huffed and slapped his papers on the desk, half-covering the key post-it as he reached for the phone. Spike frowned at the papers and carefully leaned over the desk to read the address. Just as he was about to make out a word or number, Spike wasn’t sure which, Angel glanced back as he pushed a button. Spike quickly pulled himself upright and gave his grandsire a wide, innocent smile.

“Harmony!” Angel barked into the phone. “Tell me what I have scheduled for. . . ,” he turned from Spike to pick up the small clock on his desk, “eight-twenty-three in the morning.” Angel twisted in his chair as he listened to Harmony chatter on and on. “Just tell me what I have scheduled. I don’t need a rundown of what’s being served in the cafeteria for breakfast and lunch.”

Silently praising Harmony’s prattling, Spike sidled around the side of the desk and carefully started to lift the corner of the papers covering his target.

Angel rammed backward and stabbed the papers with his elbow just before Spike read the address. He glowered at Angel’s back. Stupid vampire wasn’t cooperating.

“I don’t care if my meeting with the T’knof demons hinges on the timing and content of each meal during the day. I don’t understand all this catering we do to these demons. You’d think they’d accommodate us a little. Just tell me if I have a meeting with Spike today.” He was silent for a minute. “Thank you!”

As Angel reached to slam the receiver into its cradle, Spike jerked the slip of paper from its hiding place and stuffed both hands into the pockets of his duster. Angel appeared a bit bewildered by Spike’s new position beside him.

“Spike, go away. We don’t have a meeting today.”

Spike smirked. “Right.” He swung around the end of the desk, pulled his briefcase over the edge, and headed for the door before Angel could notice any changes to his papers. “I’ll just. . .” Spike paused and pushed open the door, giving Angel a small salute, “go.”

Angel shook his head at Spike’s abrupt exit and went back to work.


	2. Part Two

_This part’s a little clearer because I was actually physically there for most of it. That always helps._

_Seeing Spike was like. . . not like seeing Angel. Like I told Willow once, when I’m around Angel. . . . Let’s just say I hitch a ride on the pain train, and I can’t seem to get off. Everyone and everything else in the room just seems to be sucked away into some gravity-filled black hole, and it’s just Angel and me. It’s not very good for looking ahead to the future or for being aware of what’s going on around me._

_With Spike, it’s always been different. He’s always brought me out of the pain, so I can be fully me. . . so I can be aware of the world and what I need to do._

_You don’t know how much I missed that in the year we were apart._

_So, anyway. . ._

* * *

The hallway to the apartment door was riddled with blocks of late evening sunlight, yet another obstacle in his day of obstacles. Spike grumbled to himself as he slid along the wall around each ray. Guess Buffy’s father didn’t care to invest in vampire-safe-sun-proof glass.

Spike’s stomach churned a bit, and he instinctively brought his hand to his abdomen. He wasn’t sure if he was feeling this way because he’d never met Buffy’s father or because he would shortly be seeing Buffy.

After much maneuvering, he made it the mostly shady door and raised a hand to knock. The apartment door swung open, and a man with a weary expression and tousled hair shoved past Spike, dragging a suitcase behind him. Forehead creasing in confusion, Spike stared after the man, catching a whiff of his scent. Obviously. . .

“You’re Buffy’s father. . .”

“Yeah, I am,” the man said without bothering to stop.

“I’m looking for Buffy,” Spike raised his voice after him. “Hank,” he tacked onto the end for good measure.

Hank did a partial pivot and regarded him almost indifferently. “You’re Spike.”

Spike maintained an open expression. “Right. Did Buffy. . . ?”

“She mentioned you were coming over.”

“She did?” This bit of information rattled Spike.

“Yeah. I’m going to take care of a few things at the office. You can stay.” He gestured toward the door. “There’s blood in the fridge.”

“Blood?”

Hank was nonplussed. “Vampire, right? Buffy picked you some up last night when she arrived.”

Spike watched Hank disappear around the corner. Since when did Buffy’s father know she was a Vampire Slayer? Glancing back at the cracked door, Spike wondered if Hank’s words were enough of an invitation for him to enter the apartment or if he’d have to wait in the increasingly sun-filled foyer.

Before he could decide, Hank poked his head back around the corner. “Almost forgot. You’re invited into my home. Just don’t go poking through my daughter’s things. I expect you to behave like a gentleman in my house. Got it?”

Spike almost snorted at Hank’s attempt at being the protective father, but he decided he’d rather have Hank leave than stay and play watchdog. “Got it.”

“Oh,” Hank waved a finger at Spike’s Doc Martens, “and wipe that stuff off your shoes before you track it all over my carpets.”

Spike glanced down at his goo-coated feet and gave Buffy’s father an honest nod. “Right.”

Once Buffy’s father was gone, Spike took a deep breath of unnecessary air and held it. Fingers tingling, he held up his hand and pushed against the field he could almost sense hovering over the threshold.

Arms suddenly surrounded his waist from behind and a powerful force sent him plummeting forward, the little remaining air rushing out of his useless lungs as the apartment floor rushed up at him.

“Presto! No barrier,” came a familiar voice. “Guess Dad’s invite worked.”

Spike gathered his wits enough to turn over, keeping the body at his back atop him. There she settled, slender legs splayed about his hips and tiny hands perched on his abdomen. Her hair was still golden and long; stray bits of sunlight glowed from between the curls that tumbled over her shoulders. Her green eyes were dark in the shadows of the apartment entryway.

“Buffy,” he whispered. As a man dying of thirst who came across an oasis, he reached up and caressed her soft cheek.

She leaned into his cool touch and then turned back to touch him in the same way, whispering back, “Hey. You’re still you. I was worried.”

He laughed, and she drank in the sight of him. . . platinum curls partially freed of the gel he used and cheekbones still defined and proud. His body was solid beneath her. No trace of ash or burns or scars marred him just as Andrew had told her.

Spike knew that he had questions but at the moment, he couldn’t remember one of them. . . except, “So. . . you tell Angel ‘hello’ with a kiss and tell me by knocking me over?”

She smiled but ducked her head a little. “It’s been awhile. I wasn’t sure how you’d feel about. . .”

Something in Spike came back down to reality. “Oh, yeah, I almost forgot. You’re dating the Immortal.”

“*Was* dating. As in formerly. And it really wasn’t. . . well.” Buffy socked him in the arm.

“Ow!” Spike rubbed his stinging muscle. “What was that for?”

Her eyes flashed. “For coming to Rome and not telling me you were there. For not telling me you were alive in the first place.”

“We were there on a mission.” A mission he’d rather forget. It consisted of too much running around and not accomplishing anything except almost getting blown to bits in an effort to do things the bloody “Italian way.”

The corner of Buffy’s mouth lifted. She was enjoying this entirely too much. She’d missed the easy banter between them. “And yet you came by my apartment how many times?”

Spike stared at the sofa in the living room. It was a nice sofa. . . black leather. “A. . . few times.”

An eyebrow lifted. “Andrew lost count.”

“Andrew isn’t exactly the sharpest tool in the shed.”

“Exactly.”

Spike squirmed a bit under her. “Still, you were dating the Immortal, pet. As he may have told you, Angel and I, we aren’t exactly on his favorites list. And well, we thought you were in trouble and just didn’t realize what you’d gotten yourself into.”

“You mean, you were jealous.”

“No, I. . .”

“You were. And so was Angel. I don’t know what it is about vampires. Maybe it’s ‘cause of the whole immortality thing. Makes you have this warped sense of time and loyalty complete with a heavy side of jealousy. It’s something that most humans don’t seem to get. . . given that we live such short lives. Things are more transitory.”

“The Immortal is older than me and Angel.”

Buffy rolled her eyes. “And believe me, he was the jealous type. It wasn’t the healthy kind of jealousy either.”

“Then, why’d you keep dating him?”

Buffy leaned forward then, pinning Spike’s arms to the ground and holding his gaze. “Have you ever thought that I knew what the Immortal was all about? That I was trying to infiltrate his operation? What better way to do that than pretend to be attracted to him.”

Spike was doubtful. He knew how handsome the Immortal was. “You weren’t attracted to him? And the snuggling on the sofa and the nights out dancing. . .”

Donning a dreamy expression, Buffy looked off to one side. “He did have a pretty perfect body.” She fixed her eyes back on his. “It’s just when he opened his mouth. . .” She shook her head.

Spike grinned. “He’s bloody annoying when he talks.”

“Got that right. You don’t know how many conversations I tried to have with him. He always seemed to direct it back around to himself, which was all fine for Slayer sleuthing but not so fun for building a faux relationship.”

Spike was thoughtful. “And Andrew’s part in all of this?”

“After the Immortal burned down the place where Andrew was living, he bought him off with beautiful girls. Andrew actually thought the Immortal was an okay guy.”

“I knew there was something a bit off about those pretty birds hanging all over him.” Spike paused. “So, what are you doing here. . . with me. . . now?”

Buffy sat back and swung her leg over Spike’s abdomen. She hopped up and offered Spike a hand up. “Better come in and shut the door. Neighbors might see and that might get a little awkward if they told my dad when he came back from his business trip.”

Spike was caught off guard by the sudden shift and watched Buffy close and lock her father’s front door. Spike had forgotten how small she was. She’d seemed larger than life in his memories. She probably always would.

He followed her into the kitchen and leaned against the kitchen island. Buffy took some pig’s blood out of the refrigerator and poured it into a mug. She filled another cup with water and shoved them both into the microwave, pushing a few buttons and starting the machine. Then, she headed for the cabinet.

Spike made a decision. Something was weighing heavily on Buffy’s mind. . . something that had made her fly halfway around the world to talk with him. Spike had discovered that with Buffy, sometimes he had to let her come out with it in her own time. So, he interrupted her long silence with a less direct question, “How long has your dad known about the slaying?”

Taking a package of cookies from the shelf, Buffy brought them over to the island and began wrestling with the unopened bag. “He’s known for about a year. Dawn and I decided after Sunnydale cratered in on itself that it was a waste of time for us to keep him in the dark any longer. Life’s too short, and she and I needed to be able to travel and not be tied down in L.A., which he would have wanted us to do.”

Spike took her offered cookie and pulled out a stool to sit upon. “So, you filled him in?”

She nodded, swallowing a bite. “On everything.” She retrieved the mugs from the microwave and passed him his, taking a seat across from him.

“I take it he took it pretty well.”

Buffy shrugged and slipped a tea bag into the hot water. “As well as could be expected. He already had a bit of a clue from Mom. She left him a letter as part of a will she drew up when she got sick. He just didn’t receive it until I gave it to him. It took a while, but now he’s mostly okay with it, and he’s been trying to be more understanding of the situation with Dawn and me.”

Spike took a sip of the blood; it was the perfect temperature. “Does he know that Dawn is. . .”

Buffy almost choked on her tea. “No! He doesn’t. I don’t want him to freak out anymore than he has to be.”

“But he knew I was a vampire, and he was expecting me. . . today,” Spike nudged.

“Uh huh.” Buffy knew what he was doing, and she marveled at his sensitivity with her. He always knew exactly how to get her to talk.

So, the topic was coming back around to the same question more quickly than Spike thought it would. “How did you know I would come?”

“I sent the message to you and Angel. . . told Wesley to talk with you both. I knew you’d come find me, or at least, I hoped you would.” Spike didn’t respond, so she continued, “And I knew Angel wouldn’t.”

Spike frowned. She was right. “What do you mean Angel wouldn’t?”

“Angel needs help, and I need your help to help him.”

“Well, I always knew there was something off in that noggin of his, but that’s no reason to. . .”

“Willow sensed something. She said that Angel was being tempted by the forces of evil more strongly than when he first made the deal with Wolfram and Hart and that he was on the brink of destroying everything and everyone he cares about here in L.A.. . . if not in the world.” Buffy leaned forward, cupping her mug in both hands. “She even had some kind of vision that he’s even having nightmares about signing away some sort of contract or prophecy or something and jumping through fire.”

“Red’s a powerful one all right.” Spike frowned. “Her premonitions, or whatever you call them, are *that* specific? That’s better than Dru.”

“Have you noticed anything different about him?” Buffy studied him intently.

Spike blinked. Whenever they focused on each other’s exes, he always sensed an underlying tension between them as if they had inner two-year-olds that wanted to fight as they had under Willow’s “I will it so” spell so many years ago. He took a deep breath and stifled his urge to stomp out of the room. “Well, Angel’s been very focused on his work, wanting to ‘change evil from within’ or some such crap. And he’s been very cranky since Fred’s essence was shredded by some ancient god.”

“That’s what has me worried.”

Spike cocked his head to one side. “That Fred passed? The ancient god?”

“No, the thing about work.”

“It’s complete malarkey.”

Buffy nodded, eyes sparkling. She loved when they hit a rhythm like this. “The thing about working from within to change evil. Complete malarkey.”

Spike felt himself soften to her. “What do you want me to do about it, pet?”

His eyes were so clear and earnest when he looked at her. Her heart stirred with a feeling that was old but hardly forgotten. “Watch him for me. And,” she pulled a cell phone out of her pocket, “call me when anything out of the ordinary happens.”

Buffy slid the phone across the countertop, her fingertips grazing Spike’s as he accepted the means of communication. . . communication that had been disrupted for far too long.

“Don’t you have your own stuff to worry about over in Rome? I can handle things over here.”

Buffy ignored Spike’s dismissal, “Phone’s pre-programmed with my number and an international calling plan. Andrew made sure of it. It was the least he could do after he royally screwed up. And yes, I know you can handle things here. I just wanted you to know that I knew what was up and that I had your back. . . the way you’ve always had mine.”

“Thanks, love.”

She grinned. “You’re welcome.”

Bouncing off the stool, Buffy grabbed the mostly untouched drinks and put them in the sink. Spike followed her into the living room. She grabbed a black bag from behind the sofa. Tugging the bag open, she brandished a stake.

“Care to go for a patrol for old times sake?” She inclined her head toward the window. “’Cause it’s dark out, and I heard that you’ve been out running your own Slayer gig in this deadbeat town.”

Spike handily caught the bit of wood. “I got a reputation among the Slayer crowd here in L.A. then? The little girls been talking about me?”

Buffy rolled her eyes at him as she stocked her pockets with a vial of holy water and an extra stake. “Hardly. Andrew told me that you turned all Platinum Avenger. Made the news and everything.”

“Someone’s gotta save the locals from the nasties. Angel and his crew are obviously not doing it and won’t be doing it anytime soon.”

She pointed the tip of the stake at his nose. “Exactly why we need to keep an eye on them.” She stowed the bag. “The Slayers here are good, but I need the inside scoop.”

“You’re just using me as usual, then, eh, pet?” Spike teased, only half in jest. “You know I can’t resist you, so you tricked me into coming here to tempt me into helping you spy on your ex. Then, when you’re done with me, I suppose you’ll be headed back to Rome, and I’ll be left high and dry.”

Buffy crossed her arms. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

He shrugged and was honest, “Just means I know where I rate in Buffy’s little black book. I’m filed under ‘D’ for doormat. You can sugarcoat your ‘need’ for my help all you like, but when it all boils down, it’s all about Angel. Just as for me, it’s always about y. . .”

Spike didn’t have a chance to finish his sentence because Buffy blazed the five feet up to him, grabbed him by the shirt, twisted her fist, and dragged him down to her level. Green crashed into blue, and before he realized what was happening, she was kissing him, hard and long and full of a passion he’d thought long lost as a consequence of his own actions and the passing of time. Her grip relaxed when he responded in kind, allowing him to pull her close and deepen the kiss, slipping cool lips over her warm ones. Arms sliding around his shoulders, she felt him run his fingers up the curve of her spine, forcing the air in her lungs to rise up out of her in a gasp of pleasure.

Spike drew back and smiled at her. “What was that for?”

Buffy bit her lip and regarded him shyly. “More than ‘hello.’ You think that after all we’ve been through, I moved on in a year?”

He smirked. “Maybe?”

“In Buffy’s little black book, you’re not filed under ‘D.’ Maybe ‘P’ for pigheaded or ‘I’ for idiotic or ‘A’ for annoying but definitely not ‘D’ for doormat.”

“As long as we’re playing librarian. . .”

Buffy wrinkled her nose in disgust. Library was forever associated with Giles and non-sexy things like tweed. “Ewww. Why?”

He knew exactly what she was talking about. Taking a risk, he kissed the tip of her nose. “Because you do that. ‘P’ for. . .”

“Patrol,” she interrupted. “Patrol with me. And then. . .” She untangled herself from his arms, scooped up the stake she’d dropped, and backed toward the front door, fingertips lingering against his palm, energy still crackling in her muscles from their kiss.

Before he could follow, he had to ask, “And then?”

“And then, stay the night. Dad’s gone, and I want to hear about you. What you’ve been through in the last. . .” she tapped at her watch, “year.”

“Stay the night?” Spike was dumbfounded. “And after that?”

Buffy gave him a coy smile. “You’ll see. C’mon! Show me around your stomping ground. I could use a good slay before bedtime.”

With that, she disappeared down the hallway. Smiling, he cocked his head to one side, hesitating only a moment before hurrying after her. He never thought this moment would come. . . slaying with Buffy again. He’d burned to a crisp in the Hellmouth and never expected to be corporeal again after coming back all ghostly, but he’d discovered that no one was really dead in this world and that unexpected things often happened.

“Spike? You coming?” Buffy called from down the hall.

Picking up his own stake and hurrying after her, he remembered a tidbit that she’d thrown out offhand. “Hey! I made the news?”


	3. Part Three

_I’ll spare you the details of what happened next. I wanted to stay and help Spike even though I didn’t say it at first. Truth was, I was a little afraid to say I wanted to stay. I was afraid to jinx what we were starting._

_Anyway, I did end up having to head back to Rome. Turned out that the Immortal raised this huge stink about me not being present at his intra-species trial and refused to continue until I came back._

_Spike never said, but I worried that he didn’t believe I planned on staying with him in the first place. He didn’t call me when things starting falling apart with Angel. . . actually, now that I think about it, I had to call him._

* * *

A hushed silence fell over the audience.

Spike took a deep breath at the end of a long, dramatic pause and prepared to launch into another stanza of his lengthiest poem about Dru when he felt something vibrating in his pants.

“What the--?” He clambered off the stool, beer sloshing, and the microphone sent out a wave of ear-piercing feedback.

The crowd groaned as Spike tried to decipher what was moving. He dipped his hand into his jeans pocket and pulled out the emergency international phone Buffy had given him.

He flipped open the tiny phone. “Hello?” The microphone squawked again.

“Spike? It’s Buffy.” Her voice sounded teeny and far away.

He straightened the instrument to cover his ear better and in doing so, his elbow dipped against the mic stand. “Oh, shit.” His voice caught the tail end of the microphone range before it tumbled off the mini-stage.

Someone in the crowd booed, and Spike squinted into the glare of the spotlight in an attempt to glimpse the heckler.

Buffy could tell something was off. “Spike, are you drunk?”

He acknowledged the crowd and stage manager with a raised hand and hopped out of the light. Humans and demons immediately began talking amongst themselves, surrounding Spike in a comforting blanket of sound. “No, not really. Bloody vampire constitution. Just pretending so that they don’t kick me off the stage when I’m reciting poetry.”

She laughed, and he realized it might be the last time he heard her laughter. “You’re on a stage? Reading poetry? You write anything about me?”

“Stanzas and stanzas, Slayer,” his voice was suddenly hoarse with emotion.

“Oh, god.” She remembered when he’d told her about the badness that was his poetry.

“What?” he sulked. “Not good enough for you?”

“You know better than to ask me that.” Buffy refused to play into his insecurity.

“Right.” He ended up at the end of the bar and leaned on the blank wall next to the reeking bathroom. “What’s going on?”

She didn’t bother to sugarcoat her concern, “What’s Angel up to?”

“You mean besides murdering guardians to join a ring of nefarious evildoers and betraying the trust of his own inner circle before telling them it was all a front in order to trap the bad guys in attempt to redeem himself from sinking too far into the corporate mire? Willow’s premonitions – all right, by the way.”

Buffy was silent. “You didn’t call.”

Spike couldn’t resist continuing with the snark, “Don’t like hearing that your ex-boyfriend could do something so sneaky even with a soul and that now because of this mess he's got us into, we’ve got another apocalypse on our hands?”

“No, I’m *not* worrying about Angel,” she snapped. “I just. . . it’s just I wish I could be there with *you* even if you don’t believe that I really want to be.” She paused as if she’d just hit upon the idea. “I could come! I could catch a flight. Just give me a sec to get on the net and reserve. . .”

“No!” Spike practically bellowed into the phone, ignoring her implication that he didn’t believe her and jumping on the idea that she could fly across the world to help. Several of the bar patrons turned to stare at him. He shot them the glare he wished he could fire at Buffy.

“Why not? Spike, I want to do *something.*”

Catching his anger and channeling the emotion into words, he was firm, clear and far from drunk, “Now hold up here, pet. I didn’t save the world in that sodding cavern in Sunnydale for nothing.”

“What does that have to do with anything?” She wasn’t annoyed; she’d spent too much time being annoyed with him. Now, she was merely curious.

“I want you to stay there. . .you have your hands full.” Spike knew about the Immortal’s seemingly unending trial and the fires she was still constantly having to put out.

Buffy was silent for several moments, and Spike checked the phone to make sure the call hadn’t ended. Then, she spoke, “I know what I’ll do.” She sounded proud of herself.

He was amused by her childlike excitement. “What are you going to do?”

“Send Slayers to help you, of course! How many are there here in L.A.?”

“How am I supposed to know that?”

She didn’t miss a beat, “I’ll find out exactly what our resources are at this point. Andrew has to know. He helped with Dana, this Slayer in. . . wait, on second thought, I’ll just call whoever’s in charge in. . .”

“*Don’t* send that crazy Slayer to help. I don’t fancy being thrown out of any windows.” The bartender offered Spike a cold beer. He shook his head and passed off his warm, flat one instead. He was through with drinking for now.

“She threw you out of a window?” Spike imagined her frowning. “I didn’t even realize you ran into her.”

“Oh, I did more than run into her. There were also chains and loss of limbs,” Spike said with mock fondness.

Buffy strained to remember what the latest report from L.A. had said. “She’s actually doing a lot better from what I’ve heard.”

“That’s great. Keep her away from me.”

“Okay, Mr. Fraidy Cat.”

“I am *not* afraid of her. . . would you want to add her to your team if she sawed off your arms because she had delusions that you kidnapped and tortured her as a child?” A couple of the rougher bar patrons stared at him.

“God. She really thought that? And she tortured you because. . . wait a second. You didn’t. . . did you?”

“When she was a kid, I was probably in Sunnydale or. . . Europe. What. . . no concern about my arms?”

Buffy was thoughtful. “Well, you had arms last time I saw you.”

“That’s because Angel had them sewn back on at W and H.” Spike headed for the back door and slipped out into the quiet alleyway.

“That’s a relief. With evil stitches?”

He chuckled. “With evil stitches. This avenger-of-the-night gig doesn’t exactly come with a healthcare plan.”

“Point taken. Your arms worked pretty well when I saw you.” She paused. “Spike?”

Spike was still mulling over her first reference to the night they’d shared together. “Hmm?”

“I’m sending Slayers. You have to call me when you need them, when you figure out your plan. Promise me.”

“Fine. Slayers sans insanity.”

“Promise?”

She knew he kept his promises. “I promise, Buffy,” he said with utmost sincerity.

“Good.” She was satisfied with his response. She took a deep breath and played with the notepad she kept next to her cell phone charger, flipping through the blank pages and summoning her courage. “I love you, Spike.”

He was struck dumb. . . as completely taken aback now as when she’d said the same words in Sunnydale. He closed his eyes. She’d slipped them in so casually. What did those three little words mean to her? He knew what they meant to him, especially after the night they’d spent in L.A. . . .

“Say something,” she prodded uncertainly.

Spike swallowed past the lump in his throat and nudged the toe of his scarred boot on the corner of the overflowing dumpster. Although his automatic response was still denial, he forced himself to try something different, “W-why now?”

The words cascaded out of her mouth before she could censor, “Because you promised you’d talk with me again.”

“What does that have to. . .”

“Because last time, you didn’t believe me. . . you thought I just said it because you were dying.” The tears came out of nowhere, fast and strong over her cheeks. Lost in her memory of the past, she didn’t bother to brush them away.

A thousand thoughts rushed through his head as if a dam had just been broken and water was flooding through the streets of his mind. The corner of the rusty dumpster was rough beneath his fingers. “Buffy.”

“What?” She sniffed and swiped at the teardrops on her cheeks, tearing off and crumpling a note she’d left for Dawn three days ago.

“I believe you.” How to tell her the next part? As simply as possible. “I believed you then.”

“Then, why did you say. . .” She couldn’t bring herself to repeat the words he’d said in reply.

His forehead replaced his fingers against the metal. In the last year, he hadn’t let himself slow down enough to center on her; it was too painful to remember what they almost had. . . what they had, but this was too important. The truth was always important when it came to Buffy. “Because I wanted you to leave.”

“We could have both gotten out of there,” she said stubbornly.

“We wouldn’t have, and you know it.”

Hot tears cascaded down her face. “And now. . .”

He enunciated each word carefully to let her know what he said was true. “Now, I still love you. I never stopped. Never will.”

She smiled. “We have to talk again. You *have* to call.”

“Of course, I promised, didn’t I?”

“Yeah, you did.” Buffy sat back on the bed, tucking a strand of errant hair behind her uncovered ear. “Talk with you soon.”

Spike hung up the phone, remaining still for a moment. He wanted to absorb the enormity of what they’d just shared. A handful of seconds passed, and then, he shook his head and opened his eyes, taking in the empty alley, the stench of rotting garbage, and the graffiti-filled door of the bar.

Life awaited him. An apocalypse and Team Angel awaited him.

Time to fight.

Determined, he set his jaw and reached for the greasy doorknob.

Then, he stopped.

Flipping open the phone, he punched in a number.

Somewhere across the globe, a phone rang.

“Hello?”

“Buffy?”

“Spike.” She was amused but delighted. “Did you need the Slayers already?”

“No, not yet.”

“Good ‘cause I haven’t had the chance to call anyone in L.A. since we last spoke. What’s up?”

“I love you.”

She laughed, and he grinned even though she couldn’t see it. He’d been wrong; her laugh filled his ears again.

“I love you, too.”

Spike scratched behind his ear, as self-conscious as a schoolboy who’d just revealed his newborn feelings to his first crush. “Just had to see if it was real.”

“It’s real. Promise.” She crossed her index finger over her heart.

“Good. Talk with you soon, pet.” Still smiling, Spike cut the connection and turned the doorknob.


	4. Part Four

_So I lied to Spike when I told him I’d wait for his call. As soon as we got off the phone the second time, I called L.A., talked with the Slayer in charge, Thia, and arranged for her and her fellow Slayers to help in whatever way necessary in the impending fight. They already had a few witches who were monitoring the supernatural energy that was gathering near the big city, so they knew something was up._

_And as soon as I hung up with Thia, I called Giles and borrowed his credit card to purchase a flight to L.A. I couldn’t leave Spike and his makeshift family without help. This was too big to leave untouched._

_Dawn agreed to stay behind with Giles, and Willow agreed to join me in L.A. She was worried about what such a large influx of power would do to that part of the world, and she knew it could go either way._

_Plus, Spike just said he still loved me, and I wasn’t going to let him die. . . not again._

* * *

Waking up from a bout of unconsciousness or sleep, Spike groaned in the darkness of the sewer where he’d been hiding since the sun came up. His injuries were many and deep, and he wasn’t sure how long he’d been underground. All he knew was that the rat he ate, reminiscent of his meals in the Sunnydale High basement, was not enough to heal his wounds. 

Pushing himself up from where he had been reclining, he put his palm to his forehead and winced. His head was pounding, but he knew he had to get moving. Plus, the stench in the sewer was almost unbearable. He vaguely remembered that an unstoppable ray of early morning sunlight had shown through the tiny hole from one of the grates above, and now he only saw the inky blackness of night.

His right hand clanged against an object that emitted the sound of metal scraping over concrete, and he fumbled for and found the hilt of the sword he’d acquired somewhere along the way during the tidal wave of demons and various other monsters that had swarmed over Angel, Illyria, Gunn, and him. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen any of his comrades. They’d all been separated in the thick of the fight. 

Spike easily found the rungs of the ladder that led up to the grate, but climbing the rusted metal rungs was another story. Each step hurt and required enormous effort, and he mentally cursed himself for falling asleep because it made the pain settle into his muscles. 

After what felt like an eternity, his hand found and shoved aside the grate, and with a renewed burst of energy, he pulled himself onto the sidewalk where he tottered back and forth for a moment before finding and leaning against a nearby pole.

Somehow, the light from the street lamp above survived the battle, and the yellow luminance fanned out over the eerily quiet road before him. 

Mounds of shadowy, unmoving, sometimes unidentifiable bodies lined the sidewalks and street in any direction that he looked, and the air was infused with the tangy scent of blood and spilled guts. The only sound was the stray hum of flies or some other insect. God help whoever had to be the clean up crew on this one. It made helping Buffy stow the demon bodies that didn’t collapse into goo or disappear upon death in Sunnydale look like child’s play. 

Spike stared left and then right, trying to decide which direction to take. He wasn’t sure what his aim was other than to possibly find someone or something alive, preferably someone he knew. Hell, he’d even be grateful for the company of the blue god king at this point. 

“Sod it,” he mumbled and headed left. 

His arm already ached from carrying the sword, but he was unwilling to let the weapon drag on the ground for fear that something might come at him out of the dark. He thought he could handle whoever or whatever attacked him as long as he had a heads up that they were coming.

He walked so many blocks that he lost count, stepping over bodies and slopping through gore, before he heard something beyond the buzzing of flies. 

Holding his side, which had a gaping wound that would not stop oozing dark blood, Spike stopped and listened. 

The sound recurred, and he located the direction of the noise, which was coming from between two buildings. He strained to see any movement in the darkness. Even with vampire vision, he couldn’t make out a thing, so out of sheer obstinacy, he wielded the sword and crept toward the source.

The noise he’d detected became clearer as he reached the alley behind the buildings, and the piles of bodies were higher and deeper. Pieces of brick and metal were strewn everywhere. Someone or something was struggling to move and was making little grunting and scuffling noises. When he really focused hard, he thought heard a heartbeat, but the darkness was all consuming. He couldn’t see a thing.

Spike decided to take a risk and summoned a more confident tone than he felt, “Hello? Who’s out there?” 

The silence returned. Spike felt a sense of dread, but then, a familiar voice spoke. 

“S-spike? Is that you?”

Spike almost couldn’t believe his ears. He hadn’t heard that voice since he was in Sunnydale. “Red?”

A blue pinprick of magically created light suddenly appeared, growing and expanding to the size of a plum, and Spike could make out the witch’s pale face peering out from beneath a huge scrap of metal that was pinning her to the ground. A dark gash was slashed across her cheekbone. 

She grimaced and then grinned at him. “Are you ever a sight for sore eyes! Sorta ran out of juice for a bit, and I think I lost consciousness at some point.” 

Spike half-reluctantly set the sword aside and picked his way over the stacked up bodies of dead demons surrounding the trapped redhead. “Same thing happened to me. You’re the first person I’ve run across that’s still breathing. Hold on a sec. I got you.” Hiding his physical pain, Spike hefted the thick, solid, and extremely heavy metal slab and flung it off the witch. The metal thudded against the bodies beside her. “Buffy tell you to come?”

“What do you mean?” Willow sounded genuinely confused as she slowly sat up and tested out her limbs. She flinched at the pain in her left wrist, but for the most part, she was whole. Good thing she’d used the last surge of magic to help her to cushion the impending crush. “She didn’t tell you?” 

Spike offered his hand to Willow, and he helped her over the largest hump of bodies until they were on even ground again. “What do *you* mean?”

“She came with me.” 

Alarm shot through Spike’s chest. “What?!” He immediately regretted how loud his exclamation was.

The blue orb floated between them, highlighting the small worry line between Willow’s eyes. She repeated her question, “She didn’t tell you?” 

“No, she didn’t tell me!” he whispered in a pseudo-shouting voice. He shook his head. “I made all those promises to her. I should have made her promise me that she wouldn’t come out here.”

Willow gently touched Spike’s forearm with her undamaged hand. “She wouldn’t have listened. She loves you.”

Spike lifted an eyebrow. “She told you?”

“She didn’t have to. I already knew. She’s my best friend.” Willow marveled at how oblivious Buffy and Spike were about each other’s feelings for one another. “I’ve known since Sunnydale.”

“Oh.” Spike coughed and grimaced at the surge of pain in his side. 

Willow studied the blonde vampire. “You’re really hurt. We should find the others.”

“How do you know there *are* others?” 

Willow put her palm over her heart. “Connected to the earth, remember?”

“Right.” Spike managed a half-grin. “And Buffy?”

“Very much still alive,” the witch reassured him. “Several other Slayers died but not Buffy.”

Spike’s shoulders sagged in relief. “We should get out of here. Staying in one place could attract whatever leftover beasties are still kicking.”

“I’ll lead the way.” Willow closed her eyes, pulled on the slowly recharging magic, and sent a mental message to Buffy. When she opened her eyes again, she said, “This way.” She pointed in the direction from which Spike had come.

He gave a quiet snort. “Figures. And Red?”

“Yeah?”

“You were pretty spot on with your visions and extrasensory stuff about Angel.”

She smiled and shrugged. “Thanks. Just trying to help. I was so sorry to hear about Fred. I wish I could have been there.”

Spike thought of all the responses he could give that would require too much exertion when his brain still wasn’t functioning on all cylinders. Instead, he focused on what he could decipher from her tone, settling on, “I know.”

Spike and Willow travelled over the battle’s wasteland for what felt like hours. Once they passed the place where Spike thought he’d started, they found a few stray survivors, Slayers and demons. The vampire and witch effectively slew the demons and kept moving. Two of the rescued Slayers lagged behind, limping and leaning on one another for support. A third Slayer floated beside Willow, a soft blue glow pulsating around her as she silently glided along. Spike tried not to look at the unconscious girl because honestly, it was a little unsettling.

Fingertips of sunlight soon began to creep over the horizon, and Spike wondered if they’d ever find another recognizable face, much less Buffy, before he had to go into hiding again. 

Before he had given up the ghost, no pun intended, he heard footsteps pounding on the pavement. Willow glanced at him and managed a tired smile before dropping back to join the other girls. The third Slayer drifted away with her.

A small form barreled out of the fading shadows, and he staggered with the weight of the familiar person in his arms. 

“Spike. Thank god.” Buffy’s voice was muffled against his chest. Not changing positions, she called out, “Hi, Willow! You okay?”

The witch replied, “Peachy with a side of keen. Spike helped me out.” Then, she resumed her conversation with the Slayers behind them. 

His physical pain forgotten for a moment, Spike held Buffy close and inhaled her distinctive scent, grateful to simply be touching her again.

One of the Slayers glanced at Buffy and Spike as she passed them with Willow and the two others in tow. Willow hurried her on. 

After several seconds, Spike drew back and studied Buffy’s face, which was bruised and smudged with dirt. “Are you hurt?”

Buffy dismissed her injuries, “Not really anything a good sleep won’t fix. You?”

“Same. Could use a spot of blood.” Buffy stroked his cheek, and he leaned into her touch, but then, anger flooded him, and words came flowing out before he could stop them, “I *told* you to stay in Rome. You could have gotten yourself killed!”

With an ironic smile, Buffy gestured around them at the chaos. “What? And miss all this?”

Spike brushed past her and charged onward, scanning the area for potential shelters. This time, he let the sword drag on the ground, his surge of emotion draining his remaining resources. “This was not your battle to fight.”

Catching up to the pissed off vampire, Buffy crossed her arms. “And yet, you were perfectly willing to accept the help of other Slayers!”

Spike glared at Buffy. “Because I knew you were safe in Rome!” 

“Don’t you go all overprotective on me. We’ve had this conversation before!” 

He sighed and closed his eyes. “Under Red’s spell. This is different.” Willow’s her-will-be-done spell seemed so long ago, and yet here they were, rehashing bits of it as if it was yesterday. 

“How is it different?” Buffy stepped in front of Spike, forcing him to halt.

Spike felt heat as his eyes met her green ones, and he said with deliberate slowness, “Because you love me and I love you. It’s a mutual thing and it’s real. . . at least that’s what you said, and it’s all the more reason I can’t bear the thought of you dying again.”

“You think I could stand for you to die again either?” Spike stared at her. “Yeah, that’s right! I went through losing you, too! *That’s* a mutual thing!” 

The truth was raw and naked and tangible. Spike wasn’t sure how, but somehow, they had gone straight to the heart of the matter within minutes of being in one another’s presence. 

In a heartbeat, if he had a heart that worked, Spike reached out and pulled his Slayer forward, kissing her hard and long and full of every ounce of feeling he could summon. Buffy matched his intensity, wrapping her arms around his neck and tumbling down the rabbit hole of their memorable passion, a connection they’d rekindled not long ago. She pushed her tongue into his mouth, and he met her move for move, sending shockwaves of desire rocketing over her skin and through her core. 

When she finally needed a breath, she quietly gasped for the much needed oxygen and smiled up at him. Spike couldn’t tear his gaze away from her and realized that despite his injuries and fatigue, he would take her here and now if here wasn’t in the middle of a field of blood and guts. That wasn’t to say that he hadn’t done so before, but that was the past, and Buffy deserved better. Hell, he deserved better. 

Suddenly, all Spike’s aches and pains and exhaustion came rushing to the forefront, and he slumped forward over the piercing agony that came with his torn midsection. 

Buffy steadied him and slipped an arm around his waist. “We need to get you some blood.”

Accepting the assistance mostly because it meant that Buffy would continue to hold him, Spike squinted up at the brightening sky. “And some shade.”

“Well, I brought a cooler with some blood.” She nodded her head forward. “I dropped it over there when I saw you. And as far as shade, everyone is just around the corner. . . well, two blocks around the corner. We’re set up in an abandoned record store. There’s a cot with your name on it.”

He raised an eyebrow at her. “Big enough for both of us?” 

Buffy was tempted to whack him, but she didn’t want to hurt him more. “Maybe we can scoot two together.”

Spike suddenly remembered his comrades. “You seen any of. . . “ For some reason, he couldn’t bear to say their names out loud, not after everything they’d been through.

Snagging the cooler from the ground and unzipping it, Buffy handed him a lukewarm packet of blood. “Angel’s fine. He’s pretty beat up, but he’ll make it. Gunn. . . is that his name? He’s not doing as well, and we’re hoping Willow can help. Illyria. . . well, I’m assuming she’s being Illyria, all awkward and eye-stare-y. She’s easily confused by puns. And she’s really really blue.”

Spike accepted the blood. “That’s Blue for you. She was magnificent on the battle front even with her powers all tamped down. Never saw such violent head smashing and ripping of limbs in rapid succession.” Caught up in the memory, his gaze drifted off and the corner of his mouth went up. Buffy gave him a look, and he added, “Anyway, I was glad she was on our side. Guess she was a tad upset about the Watcher.” 

Buffy watched as Spike briefly vamped and punctured the bag of pig’s blood with his teeth. As he drank, she said, “I can’t believe Wesley’s gone.”

Spike paused and then said with open earnestness, “And Fred. She was the kindest of Angel’s crew. She tried to help make me corporeal again. I’ll never forget that.”

Buffy gently touched his shoulder and re-zipped the cooler. “Angel asked about you. He seemed worried.”

Spike huffed. “That’d be a first.”

Buffy sighed. “Well, he did. He told me to tell you thank you when I found you.”

“He did, did he?” Spike felt a whole mix of feelings that he expected and didn’t expect to feel for Angel, including faded jealousy, an ever present competitiveness, genuine concern and kinship, loyalty from days long past, and something akin to compassion. He wasn’t sure how or if he wanted to convey that to Buffy. 

They started moving again with Spike sipping blood and Buffy carrying his sword. As they passed the first block and he finished eating, she tucked the sword hilt against the cooler’s strap and pushed her hand into Spike’s free one. “I love you, you know?” 

Spike squeezed her hand. “I love you, too.”

Buffy bit her lip and took a deep breath, feeling the same trepidation she felt just before she confessed her love over the phone. “Want to come back to Rome with me?”

Spike regarded her, and his immediate response was yes, but he found himself saying, “After I help make things right here.”

“Then, I’ll stay and help, too.” She sounded resolute.

“What about the trial?” Spike didn’t want to know too much but had to ask.

“It’s wrapping up. . . finally. Plus, Dawn would be more than happy to come out here for summer break.” 

Spike thought about his tiny apartment. . . if he still had an apartment. “I’m gonna need a bigger place, pet.” He was pleased that he’d asked a question without asking one.

“We’ll look for one together.”

“Oh, we will?” Spike liked this determined side of Buffy most of the time. 

“Although you can make any place cozy, I’d prefer the place to have things like say. . . hot running water.” 

“I think that could be arranged, love.” Spike was already imagining the showers they’d take together.

“And oh! A walk in closet.” She skipped a little.

“How long are we planning to stay here again?”

“I dunno. Depends on how long you feel like you need to be here.” She made a face. “And how long it’ll take to clean up this mess. This is a lot to clean up. And what’re they gonna tell the people in L.A.? This is *so* much different than Sunnydale. The denial will have to be huge.”

Spike smirked. “I was thinking the same thing.” 

“Rome is nice. It’ll be nicer if you’re there, too.”

Focusing on each other and less on the horror all around them, Spike and Buffy’s light banter continued as they rounded the corner and headed into their future together.

The end.


End file.
